therapy
by alskhjdg
Summary: Draco attends therapy, but only because his psychologist's receptionist is utterly gorgeous. Canon-compliant through Deathly Hallows, epilogue and all.
1. one

**title: **therapy  
**by:** megification  
**beta-ed by:** steffie.

**summary: **Draco attends therapy, but only because his psychologist's receptionist is utterly gorgeous. Canon-compliant through Deathly Hallows, epilogue and all.

* * *

"Draco. Do come in."

A condition of being released from the ministry before all charges were dropped, Draco had been going to a psychologist as part of his parole.

Come Thursday of next week, he'll have been seeing her for three months, and he's still not any closer to figuring her out.

_'Further evaluation' my arse, _he grumbled; he'd have loved to say that the frustration was mutual, but unfortunately_—_vaguely unorthodox methods and faulty logic aside_—_she was much too unpredictably perceptive for Draco's liking.

Honestly, the only reason he continued seeing her (and risking all his secrets in the process) was because the receptionist there was undeniably attractive.

_"Oh, hullo there, Mr Malfoy, I trust you've had a good morning so far?" _he'd ask in that lovely smooth voice of his.

God, the honey-sweetness of it all made Draco want to pounce.

It was utterly unfair, the monopoly this man held over him.

"Draco." She was using _that_ voice; he heard it far too often, "I do believe I asked you a question. what were you thinking about?"

He didn't answer.

"Someone in particular? A male, perhaps?"

Draco tensed, almost imperceptibly.

She scrutinized him, and after a moment, scribbled something onto her clipboard.

_Damn_, he thought, _I was close._

* * *

Harry Potter had never given a rat's ass about Draco Malfoy.

I mean, sure, maybe he used to, but not anymore. Draco had ceased to become much of a threat, especially after the fate of the world was placed on Potter's shoulder's.

Draco insisted, however, on being obnoxiously in-Potter's-face, making every attempt to get Potter to fight back; to do something-he wanted a reaction_—__dammit, Potter__—_why won't you do _anything__—_

But it was not to be, and Potter's indifference towards Draco did not change.

It pissed him off.

* * *

"Mr Malfoy," she said in that God-fucking-damned _voice_ of hers, "_Concentrate_."

He shook himself mentally and forced his vision to sharpen-_for the love of God, Draco, can't you stop THINKING-_

She prodded gently at him, but he said nothing.

As usual.

She sighed and folded her hands in her lap. "We've been seeing each other for three months, Draco, and I've only gotten one sentence out of you. _Ever_."

_Well,_ he thought, _Of __**course**__ not. Pansy and Blaise left the country, my parents are dead, and Saint fucking Potter won't spare me a glance__—_don't even get me started on the rest of the Golden bloody Trio_—_

Cutting his self-pitying reverie short when something resembling hopelessness flashed across her normally impassive face, Draco felt a strange stab of pride at having shattered her impressive façade, if only for a moment.

He watched quietly as she worked to school her features back into that careful mask of hers, and reflexively began to criticise her-_there's nothing special about her at all; she can't pull herself together; she's no gorgeous receptionist, she's no Pansy, she's no Blaise, she's no Potter__—_

Draco stopped short.

_Did I really just compare her to __**Potter**_?

This was the moment when Draco truly began to fear for his sanity, so he opened his mouth and spoke-for the first time in months.

"Very well then," he drawled, voice still as smooth as ever, "I'll cooperate."

She looked up immediately, and her pen moved across the page so quickly he suspected whiplash.


	2. two

**title: **therapy  
**by:** megification  
**beta-ed by:** steffie.

**summary: **Draco attends therapy, but only because his psychologist's receptionist is utterly gorgeous. Canon-compliant through Deathly Hallows, epilogue and all.  
**author's note:** i am painfully aware of the fact that i update excruciatingly slowly. if it makes you feel any better, my livejournal (megification[dot]livejournal[dot]com) is updated before fanfiction because it takes me_ so goddamn long_ to reformat everything i upload here.

* * *

"I take it all the other medical professionals you've ever visited have only ever told you to 'get a grip on your emotions and move on'?" she asked one day.

Draco frowned, then nodded. He'd only had two other shrinks before (with similarily good-looking receptionists, but that was besides the point) and they'd expressed more or less the same sentiment.

She scribbled something down; pulled on her hair with her free hand-he'd come to notice she did that only when something was especially intriguing, and offhandedly wondered what he'd given away this time.

"Interesting," she murmured at last. Giving Draco a sideways glance, she asked (rather bluntly), "Do you have any friends?"

"W-wha-of course I do!" He replied indignantly, poise momentarily forgotten.

"Who, then?"

"There's..." he paused, "Th-there's Blaise, and Pansy, and my mother_—_of course_—_and_—_"

She cut in impatiently, "Anyone who isn't dead or was NOT part of your old House?"

He remained silent. She flipped a page in her notebook.

Later, before he left, she handed him a slip of paper with an address on it.

"What's this?" He asked, suspicion creeping into his voice.

"Nothing," she smiled serenely_—_annoyingly_—_"Just a place you should eat at sometime."

* * *

The next day, Draco arrived at the address she'd given him. It was a rather quaint little place-a sign above the display window proclaimed it as the _Gotham Café_.

Upon entering, he noted, with some delight, a large and varied selection of pastries. Purchasing a _mille-feuille_, he picked out a table, sat down, and inhaled the nostalgia.

The afternoon sun was wonderful. He leaned back in his chair and stretched languorously, intentionally causing his jumper to ride up and show a sliver of pale skin.

"Malfoy? I didn't think the war'd set you _so_ far back that you'd have to resort to whoring."

Draco didn't bat an eye. He looked to his right, straight into the green-eyed face of none other than the Saviour himself.

"Potter," he replied coolly, "Didn't think you'd have nothing better to do than look for rentboys after the war."

* * *

Today would be the thirty-first day of the seventh month since the start of their meetings.

Draco passed the gorgeous receptionist; he'd come to learn that his name was Sam.

Sam smiled up at Draco, "Morning, Mr Malfoy. You know the way to her room."

Draco flashed a dazzling grin back, allowed himself a moment to look over Sam approvingly, and headed down the hallway.

"Draco."

"_Herr Doktor._"

With an incline of her head, she indicated that Draco should sit. "Let's talk about your wife today."

He sat; answered measuredly, "Astoria? What about her?"

"How is she?"

"She's doing fine. She's pregnant again."

"Oh, is that so? That's wonder_—_"

Draco interrupted her congratulations, "I'm not the father."

Silence filled the room, seemingly for hours, before Draco decided to elaborate. "She cheated in retaliation. Caught me with someone else."

There was another cow of a pause, then_—_

"Oh. I see."

The session ended early. Draco paid another visit to the café.


End file.
